anxietygrrl (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
anxietygrrl) wrote2008-04-13 03:09 pm
anxietygrrl) wrote2008-04-13 03:09 pm
Entry tags:
Fic: ER, "Pause/Resume"
Title: Pause/Resume
Fandom: ER
Characters/Pairing: Ray, Ray/Neela
Rating: T
Spoilers: s13 (post-s13 AU)
Notes: I'm sure this ground has already been covered (and covered), but apparently this nonsense isn't done breaking my heart, so I thought I'd take one more go at it. Just a short piece. Unrelated to "Repeat One", though it has a similar style.
"There are two things I will carry in my pockets at the end
Oh, my darling, you are one of them"
-Basia Bulat, "Oh, My Darling"
Her hands are small, and nimble. They slice men open and rearrange them inside.
***
Three years is enough time for a lot of things. It's enough time to get used to it, though the day you realized you were used to it was almost worse than all the days you woke up and wished you were dead. It's enough time to get off the heavy narcotics and the booze (self-prescribed) and onto the antidepressants (not). It's enough time to start feeling like a halfway normal human being again (halfway), to start figuring out who the hell you are now, who you're going to be for the rest of your goddamn difficult life, and to decide that 'miserable bastard in a wheelchair' isn't it.
You can do a lot of hard work in three years. In your other life, you'd always taken the easy way if you could get it. You'd always found the shortcut, the least effort required for if not the best, then the most comfortable result. Now there isn't any easy way of anything, so you do the work, because that's all there is.
Something gets you through. Maybe you'd done just enough growing up, just before. Or maybe you've got something to prove.
Three years is more than enough time to stop hating someone, and if it's enough for that, it's got to be enough time to stop loving her, too.
***
The invitation comes out of the blue. You hold it and stare at it and turn it over, shaking your head.
Surprise Going Away Party!
Back to England, for a surgical fellowship, and then for good.
Handwritten at the bottom,
No pressure.
--Abby
Surprise.
***
You hate to travel, and avoid it as much as you can. Yet another mundane activity that's become a giant pain in the ass. Everyone around you is either bitching and grumbling about nothing, or effortlessly, luxuriously bored.
There's not a moment of the trip you don't wonder why you're making it, why you don't stop and turn around.
Closure, a voice in your head says.
Another voice, with a counterargument: Bullshit.
That one sounds suspiciously familiar. No pressure. Sure.
***
You're convinced this is one of the top five dumbest things you've ever done, and god knows that's a competitive field.
Coming back is surreal. Like reverse amnesia. You remember everything, but nothing remembers you. When the cab pulls up outside Ike Ryan's, you're hours late. You're not sure you'll actually go through with it until the moment you push through the door.
And then that's it, then you're there.
One by one, familiar faces notice you leaning against the bar. You make brief, awkward eye contact with some of them. She's got her back to you, and you're grateful for the grace period. It's Morris who says something, nudges her, and she turns.
She's not drunk, but she's got a flushed, happy buzz, you can tell. She's cradling the bowl of a wine glass. When she sees you she nearly spills it as her wrist goes slack.
You grip the bar, shift your weight, desperately seeking stability.
"Hey. Not crashing. I have an, uh...I was invited, so..."
And then she's wrapped around you, her forehead pressed against your chest.
Everyone is staring.
For an instant you hate her again, and wish you hadn't come.
For an instant.
***
She won't stop looking at you in this disorienting, unfamiliar way, with a kind of shy amazement and pride that throws you off balance in a way you hadn't anticipated. She says it so quietly, "I'm so happy to see you," and her hand rests on the table an inch from yours.
Three years, so sure you were free and clear. Twenty minutes later, and oh shit, oh hell.
You stare at her fingernails, smooth and blunt and immaculate, the cuticles ragged from scrubbing. She puts people back together.
You have to remind yourself: not everything can be repaired.
***
You talk about nothing, all the stupid, boring, everyday whatever. You trade innocuous questions, you fill in some of each other's blanks. She tells you about her new job in London. You tell her about getting ready to finish your residency in New Orleans. She tries to circle around to serious things, but you steer the conversation away, irritated. That's not why you came, it wasn't to...
It was just...
Fuck.
She draws away, excuses herself. What the hell are you even doing here?
***
Abby slides into the booth.
"So how's it going?"
"I hate you, Lockhart."
"Okay..."
"Seriously. You suck."
"'Cause it looked like it was going well..."
***
And it is, that's the cruel joke of it. It's going well.
That's good, that's what you wanted, though, right? Closure.
It's nearly two, and the two of you are outside, waiting for your cab. When it comes you'll get in, and she'll stand there on the sidewalk and watch you disappear.
You try to explain yourself.
"This isn't-- Look. We're not going to be friends again. This was just...so the last time we saw each other wouldn't be the last time we saw each other."
"Oh." It's like something inside her collapses.
Jesus. What a jerk. What a liar you are.
"Neela..."
"Don't do that," she says.
"What?"
"Don't say my name like that if you don't mean it."
Closure is for people you're never going to see again.
"What if I do?"
The cab pulls up to the curb.
***
Her small, dark hands are trembling. Her palms are soft on your face.
She opens people up and tries so hard to fix them, she tries so hard.
You're not the only one with scars.
***
"Everything's different now."
"Not everything."
"Everything's...not like it should have been. I never wanted you to see me like this."
You're not sure what's happening, what the hell impossible thing is happening, but she's shaking her head, she's clutching your sleeve. "Oh...
"You have no idea how I see you."
***
Your face is pressed against her ribs. Her sure, nimble fingers are curled at the back of your neck. You breathe, the two of you, and in that moment is the world, the future, is everything.
In every moment like that, is enough.
Fandom: ER
Characters/Pairing: Ray, Ray/Neela
Rating: T
Spoilers: s13 (post-s13 AU)
Notes: I'm sure this ground has already been covered (and covered), but apparently this nonsense isn't done breaking my heart, so I thought I'd take one more go at it. Just a short piece. Unrelated to "Repeat One", though it has a similar style.
"There are two things I will carry in my pockets at the end
Oh, my darling, you are one of them"
-Basia Bulat, "Oh, My Darling"
Her hands are small, and nimble. They slice men open and rearrange them inside.
***
Three years is enough time for a lot of things. It's enough time to get used to it, though the day you realized you were used to it was almost worse than all the days you woke up and wished you were dead. It's enough time to get off the heavy narcotics and the booze (self-prescribed) and onto the antidepressants (not). It's enough time to start feeling like a halfway normal human being again (halfway), to start figuring out who the hell you are now, who you're going to be for the rest of your goddamn difficult life, and to decide that 'miserable bastard in a wheelchair' isn't it.
You can do a lot of hard work in three years. In your other life, you'd always taken the easy way if you could get it. You'd always found the shortcut, the least effort required for if not the best, then the most comfortable result. Now there isn't any easy way of anything, so you do the work, because that's all there is.
Something gets you through. Maybe you'd done just enough growing up, just before. Or maybe you've got something to prove.
Three years is more than enough time to stop hating someone, and if it's enough for that, it's got to be enough time to stop loving her, too.
***
The invitation comes out of the blue. You hold it and stare at it and turn it over, shaking your head.
Surprise Going Away Party!
Back to England, for a surgical fellowship, and then for good.
Handwritten at the bottom,
No pressure.
--Abby
Surprise.
***
You hate to travel, and avoid it as much as you can. Yet another mundane activity that's become a giant pain in the ass. Everyone around you is either bitching and grumbling about nothing, or effortlessly, luxuriously bored.
There's not a moment of the trip you don't wonder why you're making it, why you don't stop and turn around.
Closure, a voice in your head says.
Another voice, with a counterargument: Bullshit.
That one sounds suspiciously familiar. No pressure. Sure.
***
You're convinced this is one of the top five dumbest things you've ever done, and god knows that's a competitive field.
Coming back is surreal. Like reverse amnesia. You remember everything, but nothing remembers you. When the cab pulls up outside Ike Ryan's, you're hours late. You're not sure you'll actually go through with it until the moment you push through the door.
And then that's it, then you're there.
One by one, familiar faces notice you leaning against the bar. You make brief, awkward eye contact with some of them. She's got her back to you, and you're grateful for the grace period. It's Morris who says something, nudges her, and she turns.
She's not drunk, but she's got a flushed, happy buzz, you can tell. She's cradling the bowl of a wine glass. When she sees you she nearly spills it as her wrist goes slack.
You grip the bar, shift your weight, desperately seeking stability.
"Hey. Not crashing. I have an, uh...I was invited, so..."
And then she's wrapped around you, her forehead pressed against your chest.
Everyone is staring.
For an instant you hate her again, and wish you hadn't come.
For an instant.
***
She won't stop looking at you in this disorienting, unfamiliar way, with a kind of shy amazement and pride that throws you off balance in a way you hadn't anticipated. She says it so quietly, "I'm so happy to see you," and her hand rests on the table an inch from yours.
Three years, so sure you were free and clear. Twenty minutes later, and oh shit, oh hell.
You stare at her fingernails, smooth and blunt and immaculate, the cuticles ragged from scrubbing. She puts people back together.
You have to remind yourself: not everything can be repaired.
***
You talk about nothing, all the stupid, boring, everyday whatever. You trade innocuous questions, you fill in some of each other's blanks. She tells you about her new job in London. You tell her about getting ready to finish your residency in New Orleans. She tries to circle around to serious things, but you steer the conversation away, irritated. That's not why you came, it wasn't to...
It was just...
Fuck.
She draws away, excuses herself. What the hell are you even doing here?
***
Abby slides into the booth.
"So how's it going?"
"I hate you, Lockhart."
"Okay..."
"Seriously. You suck."
"'Cause it looked like it was going well..."
***
And it is, that's the cruel joke of it. It's going well.
That's good, that's what you wanted, though, right? Closure.
It's nearly two, and the two of you are outside, waiting for your cab. When it comes you'll get in, and she'll stand there on the sidewalk and watch you disappear.
You try to explain yourself.
"This isn't-- Look. We're not going to be friends again. This was just...so the last time we saw each other wouldn't be the last time we saw each other."
"Oh." It's like something inside her collapses.
Jesus. What a jerk. What a liar you are.
"Neela..."
"Don't do that," she says.
"What?"
"Don't say my name like that if you don't mean it."
Closure is for people you're never going to see again.
"What if I do?"
The cab pulls up to the curb.
***
Her small, dark hands are trembling. Her palms are soft on your face.
She opens people up and tries so hard to fix them, she tries so hard.
You're not the only one with scars.
***
"Everything's different now."
"Not everything."
"Everything's...not like it should have been. I never wanted you to see me like this."
You're not sure what's happening, what the hell impossible thing is happening, but she's shaking her head, she's clutching your sleeve. "Oh...
"You have no idea how I see you."
***
Your face is pressed against her ribs. Her sure, nimble fingers are curled at the back of your neck. You breathe, the two of you, and in that moment is the world, the future, is everything.
In every moment like that, is enough.
no subject
So this is where my heart broke.
And it was a constant back-and-forth of breaking and knitting and breaking again. Because even when they were together:
Her small, dark hands are trembling. Her palms are soft on your face.
She opens people up and tries so hard to fix them, she tries so hard.
You're not the only one with scars.
It's still filled with the past and sadness.
Argh (but in a bittersweet, highly awesome way).
no subject
(I honestly can't evaluate because I'm so self-conscious about how earnestly this subject breaks my heart.)
Notice which icon I didn't use
Yeah, I would say that. I would stand by that statement.
Also, I might add STABINATION re: my heart. And a so-lame-you'd-be-proud "eeeeeee" when They Finally Got Together.
(Update: Clemente just hit on a 21-year-old while chewing gum like it was a 10-year supply of cud. Show, when you add in stuff about him being all emotional and having a mean married girlfriend, that's why I still don't care about him. Blech.)
I can't wait 'til that icon debuts.
The show is clearly telling us, "Check out this guy! He is an OUTSTANDING character!" But the entire time he's around, our friends the regular characters are looking at him like "Why the fuck are you here again?"
Does this thing need a title?
Ooh, Callie Thorne is here. Yikes.
Yes, that's dead on, and I will add he has that Logan from Gilmore Girls thing where his assholishness is supposed to be charming because he owns it, but sometimes ownership doesn't change the fact that a character is downright repugnant and annoying.
I'm crap with titles. But I almost want to go with the description of Neela's hands for some reason: Smooth and Blunt and Immaculate. Or is that too post-modern?
no subject
Yes. Wordy McWord, as they said in quaint olden times.
Hmm, yeah, that could work. I guess it doesn't actually need a title unless I decide to post it on fanfiction.net and BLOW THEIR FUCKING MINDS!!!!1!
no subject
Considering you got me into this pairing (and actually watching ER for a year), you should totally be responsible for creating closure ;) And you succeed =P
no subject
(And ha, yeah, sorry about that. When I started selling this pairing I didn't expect the payoff to be TOTAL DOOMINATION.
Heh. Obviously I'm the one who needs closure.)
no subject
"Three years is more than enough time to stop hating someone, and if it's enough for that, it's got to be enough time to stop loving her, too"
and
"This isn't-- Look. We're not going to be friends again. This was just...so the last time we saw each other wouldn't be the last time we saw each other."
Guh. This is why in many ways I hope we don't get proper closure on the show, because much as I'm going to firebomb NBC if it doesn't happen, they will never be able to produce anything this raw and emotionally truthful. Loved it.
no subject
because much as I'm going to firebomb NBC if it doesn't happen
Augh, I know! And I know better, but I still want it so bad. Sigh.
no subject
no subject